


Conflict of Interest

by kingdomdizzy



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Explicit Language, I used to work for my college newspaper I know what I'm talking about, M/M, Meet-Cute, Oblivious Lance (Voltron), Photographer Keith (Voltron), Pining Keith (Voltron), Rated T for, Soccer Player Lance (Voltron), and college shenanigans, more like meet-ouch ahaha, sorta?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2020-09-30 12:41:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20447321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingdomdizzy/pseuds/kingdomdizzy
Summary: Taking pictures of sports was so…boring. Arts and Culture, the section of the paper Keith actually worked for, was fun and lively with something different every week. It wasinteresting. Sports were… predictable. You either won the game or you didn’t. Nothing to look forward to.Boy, was he in for it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> my first klance fic ever, I certainly have a lot of ideas and really any of them could happen at this point so let's see where this goes :))
> 
> enjoy xx

“You’re making me do _what?_”

Keith stared at Shiro as he ran his hands over his face in exasperation, then through his hair. “Listen, I know you hate doing sports, but our other guys bailed on us—”

“Why can’t you get Syd to do it?” Keith asked, crossing his arms. “Or Tabs or Lenny, or literally _anyone_ else from the arts section? Why does it—”

“Because you’re the best,” he stated. Keith thought of a retaliation, but nothing came. Shiro sighed and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “I wouldn’t ask you to do it if I didn’t think you were capable,” he said, quieter this time. “It’s just a few games, just get some shots of the players doing something cool that we can put in the print, next week you’ll be back in arts.”

Keith’s foot tapped against the linoleum floor; his eyes locked on the wheel of his chair as he thought. Taking pictures of sports was so… _boring_. Arts and Culture, the section of the paper he actually worked for, was fun and lively with something different every week. It was _interesting_. Sports were… predictable. You either won the game or you didn’t. Nothing to look forward to. 

Shiro apparently saw the conflict still lingering on Keith’s face and rolled his eyes. “You know if you don’t do it, I’ll be forced to do them.”

At that, Keith snorted. “You? You can’t even work your phone camera.”

He shrugged and leaned back in his chair. “All the more reason for you to take them.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Keith grumbled, but he couldn’t hide the smile. “Fine, you got me. I wouldn’t force anyone to suffer through your photos.”

They shook hands, both of them chuckling lightly. “Pleasure doing business with you,” Shiro said.

Keith rolled his eyes again. “You can just get whatever you want, can’t you?”

“Why do you think I’m editor-in-chief? Now get out of my office, its production night and I’m gonna need some alone time before that shit show.”

With a quick wave, Keith swung his backpack over his shoulder and started out the office and down the stairs. The student media hub was located on the third floor of the Student Union Building on the edge of campus. Keith never minded the walk, since it was right between where all his classes were and where his apartment was located in town. He usually stopped there at least once a day, either in the morning or afternoon, to check on assignments he had taken, upload photos to the shared server, or chat with Shiro since they were pretty good friends at this point. 

Keith had joined student media his first year of college. He had taken pictures for the yearbook and small newspaper that was in production at his high school, but he wanted to do the real thing, take pictures of things people _really_ cared about and would give them interest. 

Of course, at first, he was totally overwhelmed. Student media in college was a whole other ballpark compared to that of high school. He nearly quit within his first month before Shiro, a copy writer and well-respected news editor at the time, told him to stick to it. “It’ll be worth it,” he had said, slapping the back of Keith’s shoulder. “Trust me.”

So, he stuck with it. After getting over the hump that was his first semester of college, everything fell into a smooth routine (with only a few hiccups along the way). He quickly moved up the latter as one of the top photographers in the Arts & Culture section of the paper, and even did some copy editing through his second year after Shiro became editor-in-chief. It was fun, challenging, engaging, and hey, he even got paid. 

But sports? Ugh.

He would rather make a photo essay about paint drying on cardboard than take pictures of sports. What was there even to take pictures of? Men and women who are sweaty, with unflattering faces as they try desperately to keep a ball or get rid of a ball or whatever and smiling at the crowd. That’s _it_. Keith _hated_ it.

And now he had to make those sweaty people with unflattering faces look _good_ for the newspaper. 

_Fuck._

Keith stuck his headphones in as he started past Greek row. It was the middle of September, so they all still deemed it warm enough to sit out on their front decks with music playing from someone’s window and toss a frisbee back and forth. He always kept his head down and music loud, not wanting any unnecessary interactions with them. 

As he was walking past one fraternity, he saw a soccer ball roll towards his ankle out of the corner of his eye. He glanced up quickly enough to see the circle of guys playing in the lawn and halfheartedly kicked it back to them. Through his headphones he heard one of them yell, “Join the soccer team!”

Keith turned up the volume. 

Eventually, he made it to Drips, one of the coffee shops neatly situated between the engineering building and the library. The line was surprisingly short, and eventually he was greeted by a familiar face. 

“There you are,” Pidge huffed, pulling out a cup of coffee from behind the espresso machine. “I’ve had this made for like fifteen minutes, where were you?”

“Important meeting,” Keith grumbled, then handed her a few crumpled bills. “Shiro had a special request for me this week.”

Pidge wiggled her eyebrows while counting out change. “Pray, do tell?”

He dumped his change into his pocket and took a sip of the now slightly warmer than luke-warm drink as he moved to a table by a window. Pidge followed, removing her mandatory Drips hat to signal that she was on break, then put her elbows on the table and rested her chin in her hands in mock piqued interest. 

Keith took another long sip. “I’m doing sports this week.”

Pidge laughed, making some people around them turn to stare. “You? Do sports?” She wiped away a fake tear of laughter. “Has Shiro gone insane?”

“All the other photographers were compromised this week,” he muttered, “and he basically said I was the only arts guy that could handle it.”

Pidge ran a hand through her hair, not making it any the less poofy. “So, how many games are you attending this week?”

“Haven’t checked,” he shrugged. He quickly dropped his bag onto the floor and fished out his laptop, bringing open an event schedule. “Looks like there is a football game, a soccer match, and a swim meet.” He sighed. “There goes my weekend.”

“That means I get the place all to myself,” Pidge smiled.

Keith rolled his eyes. “Yeah, because I’m such a _terrible_ roommate, right?”

“One hundred percent the worst,” she winked. 

“Alright, gremlin, go back to making coffee.”

She pushed his shoulder and shoved her hat over her hair to duck behind the counter, though she hardly needed to duck in order to disappear. Keith huffed and returned to his laptop. They had only known each other since freshman year from an intro class they were both forced to take (something about agriculture? Architecture? Art and culture? Neither of them remembered) and both sat in the back. Pidge made a comment about how ‘emo’ Keith looked, and he called her a gremlin.

Thus, a beautiful friendship was born.

He checked the clock on the wall and exhaled when he saw there was still time before his next class. So, he leaned back in his chair, took another sip of his drink, and watched the people out the window as they moved along to their next destination. 

+++

The rest of the week had gone off without a hitch. Since a lot of the different arts and culture stuff he usually photographed weren’t on his to-do list this week, he felt like there was time for him to catch up on work he had been pushing aside for a while. Trials of the modern media essay? Done. Dishes? Clean. Presentation about the effects of climate change on younger generations? Slides 4-6 finished. Gas tank? Filled to the brim.

At last, Keith sat himself down on the couch with a long groan and eager eyes on the chicken he had made. The hot steam was wafting through the air into his nose. He was practically drooling. He finally held the fork up to his mouth, ready to take a bite of the sweet, juicy—

“_Keith!_”

The door burst open to reveal Pidge, disheveled and smelling of coffee (which did _not_ go well with his chicken) and holding her phone outstretched in front of her. 

Keith, startled by the sudden noise, dropped his fork of chicken onto the carpet. “For fucks sake, Pidge, I was just about to—”

“Don’t care,” she said, closing the door and plopping onto the couch with clear disregard for the chicken on the floor. “Look at this.”

His eyes scanned wearily over the words on the small screen. “Why are you showing me this?”

“Because this soccer match that you’re photographing is going to be a _huge_ deal!”

Keith scrunched his nose in uncertainty. “It’s… a new player. What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal is…” Pidge snatched her phone back. “The biggest soccer star in this _state_ just got removed from the team for using steroids, and now a transfer student from Florida is taking his place. Everyone is going to be there!”

“So?”

Pidge’s shoulders deflated. “You better be on your snapshot game on Saturday because _everyone_ is going to be looking at those photos.” Her elbow met his side in a ‘hint-hint-nudge-nudge’ motion and sang, “like possible job offers.”

At that, he groaned. “I don’t wanna get offered a job from sports photos, I do arts! That’s what I’m passionate about, not sports. Sports are so—”

“Boring, I _know_,” she interrupted, collapsing into the couch. “I’m just saying. Job offers means ‘hey, let me see some of your other work’ then ‘oh, your art pictures are amazing’ then boom! Every magazine in the country is gonna be knocking on your door.”

Keith contemplated this. After a few seconds of silence, he picked up his fork off of the floor, discarded the piece of chicken, and stabbed a new one. “That seems like a stretch.”

She simply shrugged and stole a piece of chicken to toss into her mouth. “I tried to be an optimist; all my pessimism is blamed on you now.”

Finally, Keith bit into his chicken, a smile resting on his face. “I think I can handle it.”

Pidge moved to her room to change and Keith quickly pulled out his laptop to find the article. If it was a school article, then the author had to have been…

Hunk. Of course, it had been Hunk, one of the best news writers in student media. Keith brought out his phone and scrolled to his number, listening to the dial tone hum in his ear while scanning through the words in the article again. He thought he saw a name in here somewhere, maybe it was—

“Hello?”

“Hey, Hunk,” Keith answered. “I saw that article you wrote about the soccer player on steroids, I bet that was a fun story to scoop.”

He let out a laugh. “Oh, yeah, that was certainly… something. I had to get a lot of help with it because the subject was really touchy, especially with the big match coming up this weekend.”

“Well you killed it, as always.” Keith leaned back against the couch, another piece of chicken falling into his mouth. “So, is there any secret details you had to cut out of the final story?”

“Keith, you’re sounding more and more like Pidge every day.”

“Shut up,” he scoffed, “I have to take pictures of the match so I just wanna know some of the extra details. Who knows what I’ll have to throw in my photo captions?”

There was a long sigh on the other end, all the while Keith’s smile grew. “Fine, fine. There really wasn’t too much that didn’t make the cut, just that the player was at a party when police showed up, they searched his bag and found steroids, and was promptly kicked off the team.”

“Amateur,” Keith jested. 

“Shuddup.”

Keith chuckled. “Go on.”

“Right, uh, well, the new guy from Florida was going to begin alternating as a starter, but now he’s been bumped up to starting center forward, which is a _pretty_ big deal, especially because the guy’s a third year.”

He let out a whistle. “Must be pretty impressive on the field.”

“_Exactly_ why everyone will be going to the game on Saturday. Gotta check the guy out, make sure he’ll keep our school’s name in the championship running.”

“I hope for his sake he’s worth all the hype.” 

Distant shouting came through the phone, followed by a flustered Hunk, “Sorry, man, I gotta go. Production night is—”

“Crazy, I know. I’ll catch you later. Oh, before I forget, what was his name? The new guy?”

“Number seven on the field, I think. Lance McClain.”

+++

When Hunk and Pidge said everyone would be at the soccer match, he expected about as many people that came to an average football game. What he _wasn’t_ expecting was the entire stadium to get sold out and parking to be so abysmal that he had to park in a whole other lot. Thankfully, he had left the apartment early so he wouldn’t have to necessarily run. Just… walk very fast.

Once he made it into the stadium (slightly sweaty and out of breath) he was stunned. The seats were packed. The student section was overflowing with blue and white school spirit; there were signs, guys in the front row with letters on their bare chests, cheerleaders and dancers in the front teaching cheers. The rest of the seats were just as full, and just as color coordinated and loud.

And Keith _really_ remembered how much he hated sports. 

Music blasted out over the speakers, making the crowd cheer with every familiar beat. Keith silently wished for earplugs because there was no way he was going to be able to hear anything after being in this arena. Apparently, this was only a docile noise. 

When the music stopped, the crowd went _crazy_. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,” a loud voice rang through the arena, “please give a warm welcome to your very own Garrisons!”

And the crowd got even louder. 

Keith quickly moved towards the center of the field to get a good view of where the players were starting to run out. The announcer listed off names as they ran, many of which Keith didn’t know but some that sounded familiar. He kept snapping picture as they waved and high fived each other after meeting on the field, drinking in the screams coming from the stands. 

“Last but not least, number seven, Lance McClain!”

Out of the corner of his eye, Keith swore the whole stadium got to their feet. He held the camera to his face, wanting to get the perfect shot of this guy’s first debut onto the field. His finger rested on the shutter; he steadied his hands so there wouldn’t be any motion blur. Finally, Lance stepped out.

Keith nearly lost his breath. The shouting around him faded into white noise in his ears. Lance’s face was perfectly in frame, a large bright smile lighting up his deep colored face. His cheeks were slightly pink, his hair was dark and tousled with some falling into his face, creating a frame around his luminescent blue eyes. Keith pressed the shutter, hearing it _click click click_ as the continuous photos were captured. He lowered the camera slightly, needing to confirm that what he saw was real.

Somehow, it was. 

Lance jumped into a shoulder bump with another player, waved at the crowd, flashing another smile. Keith, despite suddenly not being able to move any of his limbs willingly, managed to snap a few more pictures before escaping to the sidelines and collapsing on the ground. 

His heart was racing. His hands felt sweaty. What was happening? Sure, Keith had just seen the most attractive man to ever grace this planet but that wasn’t a big deal. No, of course not. He was fine. He just needed to take pictures. 

Right, pictures.

_Pictures,_ he thought as Lance ran up and down the field, fueled by the cheers of the crowd. _Pictures,_ he thought as Lance lifted up his jersey to wipe the sweat off of his face, revealing a very toned and sculpted stomach. _No, not pictures of that_, he scolded himself. _Pictures, pictures, pictures…_

Keith found himself crouched near the goal of the opposing team, turning his lens to zoom in on the players running toward him. One player had the ball, number twenty-three, then passed it to number thirty-one. They faked out an opposing member, then passed it to where Lance, number seven, was waiting in the center of the field. 

He moved down the field like he had all the time in the world. A smile, the same smile Keith must have captured already a hundred times, lit his face as he took aim at the goal, a straight shot into the net. His right foot reeled back; Keith’s finger held down the shutter. 

_Click click click._

The last picture Keith saw was an opposing defender, number ninety-nine, sliding his foot in to deter the balls course. Sadly, it worked.

Keith looked up from his camera right as the ball slammed into his face.


	2. Chapter 2

Keith decided that he would much rather be asleep right about now. His head hurt, he felt blood coming out of his nose, and whether his eyes were open or closed, he wasn’t sure, but spots dotted across his vision. The turf underneath him had suddenly become very, _very_ comfortable. Maybe no one would notice if he fell asleep. Maybe he could just take a quick nap…

“Buddy, hey, can you open your eyes?”

Okay, so his eyes were closed.

It took a lot more effort than anticipated to peel his eyelids open to the bright stadium lights. As his eyes adjusted, he was met by worried faces staring down at him. One, who he assumed was the paramedic, had started cleaning up the blood on his face with a cold rag. Another was number seven, Lance, with his eyebrows furrowed together in worry and a frown on his face. 

They stared at each other for a moment, the sound of Keith’s blood pumping in his ears making it very hard to think. Lance’s eyes were blue. Nearly electric blue. Keith hoped he had been able to capture that in his pictures. 

With a soft voice, somehow still loud enough for Keith to hear, Lance asked, “Are you okay?”

_Now is your chance, Keith, say something smooth._

“You hit me in the face.”

_Nice._

His frown faltered as a nervous laugh came out. “Yeah, I’m real sorry about that. I swear I was aiming for the goal—”

“You can talk later,” the paramedic interrupted, instructing Keith to hold the rag against his nose. Keith grunted, mostly because he wanted Lance to keep talking. He grunted again when people started helping him stand up, knowing that his nap would most likely be postponed. “I’ll escort you to the student health center.” Keith just nodded, blinking away more spots.

“I’ll go too!”

It if there wasn’t so much blood already on his face, everyone would have seen Keith start to blush. However, his attention was quickly taken away when Lance was dragged back towards the field by a coach of some sort, being scolded about something.

Keith watched him go, feeling his own body being pushed towards the exit by the paramedic at his elbow. Lance made a quick glance back, the worry returning to his face. He wanted to reassure him that he’d be fine, wave off his worry or give him and super lame thumbs up, but with a bloody rag being held to his face and bruises definitely beginning to appear around his eyes, he decided a small slightly pained smile would be best. 

+++

“So, how are you feeling, Keith?”

_You’re shining a flashlight in my eyes, my head hurts like hell, and I’m missing photo opportunities._

“Just peachy,” he replied dryly.

“I appreciate the fake cheerfulness.” The student nurse turned off the flashlight, tucked it into her pocket, and gave him a small smile. “The good news is I don’t think you have a concussion.”

“Does that mean if I fall asleep, I don’t have to be monitored?”

“No, I think you’ll be fine,” she laughed, “but you still seem dizzy and a little unsteady, so I would recommend someone come pick you up, so you don’t have to drive.”

Keith rolled his eyes, not ready for what Pidge would say about the whole situation. He adjusted his position on the edge of the table. “Alright, what’s the bad news?”

She shrugged, writing something down across the room. “Your nose is slightly fractured, so it’ll be in pain for the next couple days and you might have some nasty bruising.”

“Wonderful,” Keith sighed, taking out his phone and typing a message to Pidge. 

_I’m at the student health center and need a ride, when can you get here?_

He waited as the three dots appeared on screen.

_Wtf? What the hell did you do?_

_Just please come get me soon_

_Uuuuh I’m at work. I can try to leave early but you might have to get comfy for awhile_

Keith ran a hand through his hair in exasperation. He looked to the nurse, still writing stuff on the counter. “How comfy are the waiting room chairs?”

Her nose crinkled. “I’ll get you a spare pillow.”

+++

Keith would probably have been far more comfortable on the waiting room floor than in these chairs, but because of the pillow so graciously given to him by the student nurse (her name was Shay, he learned) he managed to rest his eyes. After checking his phone repeatedly, waiting for Pidge to say she was well on her way, he checked his camera which had somehow remained relatively unscathed through the whole incident. 

For being sports photos, he admitted to himself that they looked pretty decent. The crowd pictures were well adjusted, the players as they ran onto the field showed all the excitement on their faces, and when Lance…

Lance. Keith had somehow already forgotten how crazy attractive he was. Thankfully, the _embarrassing_ amount of pictures Keith took of Lance did not fail to remind him. As he ran out onto the field with a huge smile on his face, when he shoulder-bumped his teammates, the look of concentration on his face when he prepared for the kick-off, all the way up to when he was about to make that goal. 

As he scrolled through them all over again, he found one that caught his eye. It wasn’t Lance necessarily doing anything, just… smiling. His eyes were on the camera, whether he had actually seen it or not was another question. His smile was wide enough to crinkle his nose and partially close his eyes, but not enough to keep the color a mystery. His hand was in a thumbs-up pose. His body was turned just enough to see the number seven on his jersey. The longer he looked at it, Keith felt like Lance wasn’t looking at the camera, but at _him_. 

_Don’t do this, Kogane_.

He shut his camera off, resting it in his lap and leaning his head against the wall. Lance. He was a stranger, one that he probably wouldn’t ever see again. If he did, he knew exactly how it would go. 

_‘Do I know you?’ _

_‘Yeah, I’m the guy you hit in the face with a soccer ball that one time.’ _

_‘Oh, yeah. I had completely forgotten about you. Sorry about that, see you around!’ _

Sure, maybe it was a worst-case scenario, but Keith felt like it could be accurate. 

He checked his phone again, sending a silent prayer to whatever omniscient force ruled the universe, but still no message from Pidge. He groaned, rubbing his face with his hands but hissing as he touched near his nose. “Fuck,” he muttered, cautiously rubbing his eyes.

“That bad, huh?”

Pidge, still in her Drips Coffee hat, stood in the doorway with a bemused look on her face. Keith sighed and stood up. “It’s been a long day. And thanks for the text you must’ve forgot to send.”

“Hey, I’m here, aren’t I?” she peered forward slightly. “Jesus Christ, Keith, did you walk face first into a goal post or something?”

“Can we just go home, please.”

“I hope you tell people you got into a fight. That’ll sound a lot cooler than the ‘I tripped over my own shoelaces and ate shit’ story.”

“Pidge, the car.”

She held up her hands in defense, leading the way to her car. It was just like Pidge; small, economical, but a complete mess on the inside. Pidge also wasn’t the best driver (as in however she passed her driving test, Keith will never truly understand) but Keith just wanted to get home in whatever state of being the universe allowed. 

Keith was about to open the passenger seat door when he heard a noise. It was somewhere between a straggled cry and a shout. He hesitated, waiting to hear it again.

This time, it was clearer. 

“Hey! Dude!”

When he turned around, the last thing he expected to see was Lance, still in his soccer jersey, running down the street towards the student health center. Towards _him_. Keith inherently froze in place with his hand still on the door handle as Lance came to a quick halt. He was breathing heavy, sweat dripping down his face, but he didn’t seem to care. 

“I… I’m glad I caught you before… before you left,” he said in between breaths. 

Keith, suddenly doubting Shay who said he didn’t have a concussion, blinked at him. “Huh?”

Lance laughed a little, like Keith’s absolute disbelief was humorous. “I wanted to make sure you’re okay. A soccer ball to the face can be pretty foul, I’ve had a few of my own. What’s your name?”

He cleared his throat. “Keith.” 

“Keith,” he repeated, drawing a hand through his hair. Keith thought he might blackout. “How’s the, uh, how’s the face?”

“My nose is, uh, slightly fractured.”

“Yeah,” he squinted at him slightly, “I can tell by the bruising.” He took another deep breath. “Listen, man, I’m so, so sorry about this. It was my first big game, I was in the zone, that _stupid_ guy kicked the ball so really, _he’s_ the one who should be apologizing but dude you just went _down_ like I thought maybe you had passed out—”

“I—It’s fine,” Keith interjected. His hand was still on Pidge’s car. Pidge was watching the whole interaction intently through the windshield. “My nose, I mean, uh, it doesn’t hurt. That much. It’s, uh, it’s fine.”

_Real eloquent there, Keith, way to go_. 

Lance didn’t look completely convinced, but he nodded nonetheless. “Well, listen, I need to make this up to you. I just—you know what, here.” Lance extended his hand, holding out a piece of paper. When Keith didn’t take it, he explained, “It’s my number. If you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.”

Despite his brain malfunctioning and Pidge’s eyes burning holes in the side of his skull, he reached forward with the hand not on the door handle and grabbed the piece of paper. Sure enough, a phone number was scribbled on it. Keith glanced up at him with a quirked eyebrow. “You give your number to everyone you injure?”

“Head injuries, specifically,” Lance laughed. 

Keith smiled. “And you said… anything?”

Lance wiggled his eyebrows. “I’ve got some friends in high places.” There was a noise that came from his phone, and when Lance looked at it, he cursed under his breath. “I gotta get back, but I really mean it, _anything_, yeah?”

Keith gave a small nod as Lance started running back in the direction of the stadium. He looked down at the number again before shoving it in his pocket and finally opening the car door. They were both silent. There was only a _click_ as Keith buckled his seatbelt. 

Finally, Pidge broke the silence. “You got a soccer ball kicked into your face?”

He nodded. 

“By the new soccer star from Florida?”

He nodded.

“And that same guy from Florida who kicked a soccer ball into your face just gave you his number?”

He nodded, carefully rubbing his eyes again. 

Pidge let out a long sigh and started the car. “I told you you wouldn’t wanna miss this game.”

“Please just get me home.”

+++

Shiro’s laughter echoed through the office. Thankfully, it was mostly empty; unfortunately, it was supposed to be _completely_ empty since Keith choose to come put the soccer match photos into the system at eight in the morning on a Sunday. _Specifically_ so no one would see him. None of his plans were working out the way he had hoped.

Shiro, obviously having just gotten done with a run, was doubled over in laughter at the sight of Keith’s face. He just scowled, waiting for the laughter to subside slightly before turning back to the photos on the screen. “You done?”

“I—I thought it was just a rumor.” He was now on the floor, catching his breath. “I heard that a photographer at the soccer game had gotten hit in the face, but I thought ‘nah, Keith wouldn’t let that happen.’”

Keith clicked onto the next picture, typing out the caption. “Yeah, well, first time for everything, I guess.”

“If I may,” Shiro said, pulling himself into the chair adjacent to Keith, “what the hell happened?”

He shifted slightly, moving to the next picture. “I just happened to be in the line of an unfortunate misdirected kick while I was fixing some settings. That’s it.”

Shiro’s eyebrow raised. “Really? That’s it?” Keith nodded, and Shiro crossed his arms. “I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t see how there is anything to disbelieve,” he muttered, quickly moving to the next picture. When it appeared on screen, he faltered slightly. It was Lance, the one of him looking directly into the camera, looking at him. Keith quickly tried to regain his bearings, but Shiro noticed.

“So, that’s the exchange student, yeah?” When Keith didn’t answer, Shiro let out a low whistle. “I bet the ladies will be fawning all over him, especially since he _did_ win the game.”

_Three to zero_, Keith remembered. He had watched the second half of the game while editing pictures the night before, always telling himself he smiled because they made the goal, not because of how happy Lance looked. 

“That’s a great picture, too,” Shiro added. “I don’t usually appreciate photos where the focus is looking at the camera, but this one if different. There’s something in his eyes…” 

Keith quickly finished his caption and moved to another photo, one less interesting. “It’s alright,” he said, hoping he sounded convincing enough. 

Shiro rolled his chair closer, examining him. “You’re sure there wasn’t anything… _distracting_ at the game? Not even a little?”

He felt his cheeks start to burn. Sure, there would be no harm in telling Shiro that he might have the _smallest_ crush on this guy that kicked a soccer ball into his face and nearly broke his nose. Except, the harm was that Keith didn’t _want_ to have a crush on this guy. For all he knew, he could be the worst guy in the world, or, even worse, _straight_. The second the Keith said it out loud, it would be real. It couldn’t be real if Keith just let it die with him. So, that was his best course of action. 

The last picture flicked off the screen and Keith logged off the computer, tossing his memory card into his front pocket and pulling his backpack over his shoulder. “My ISO settings were acting up and I was trying to fix it,” Keith lied. He looked Shiro in the eyes. “That’s it.”

Of course, he could tell that Shiro didn’t believe him. Nonetheless, he nodded and gave him a small wave as he left. Keith shoved his headphones into his ears and pulled up his hood, ready for the walk to retrieve his car nearly all the way across campus. The music was nearly drowned out by his own inner dialogue. 

Keith had done this before; he falls for an attractive guy, builds him up in his own head as being a stand-up guy, one who is funny and asks Keith about the pictures he takes, a guy who actually also likes guys. Alas, all his previous endeavors have always failed on at least one of those fronts. After the severe heartbreak he experienced from his sophomore year from a boy named Lotor (and really, what kind of a name was that anyway?) Keith put the idea of having romance a part of his life onto the backburner. 

He had to sometimes reassure himself that, yes, it was okay not to have a romantic interest at this point in his life. Pidge seemed to be doing just fine, though from the talks they’ve had Keith thinks that Pidge would much rather be in a committed relationship with a computer program than an actual human being. Hunk was single, too, and if _Hunk_, the most romantic, sweet, and down to earth person Keith had ever known, didn’t have a girlfriend? Maybe he wasn’t doing so bad after all. 

By this point, he was started up Greek row, which was predictably quiet for this early on a Sunday morning. The sun filtered through some of the trees covering the sidewalks, and a slightly breeze hit his face. He was still warm, not quite sweltering under his sweatshirt yet, but knew that the weather would soon not be so gracious. 

In a sudden urge, Keith took out his headphones. With hardly anyone walking around, he could almost hear the sound of leaves falling around him, breaking through the air and softly landing on the walkway by his foot. He took a deep breath, drinking in the peaceful quiet of the morning. 

“Hey! Might wanna move!”

It never lasted long.

Keith managed to turn around right as a bicycle came to a halt at his feet. Looking up, Keith wished that a bus would jump out of the bushes and put him out of the absolute fuckery that was this weekend. 

It was Lance.

“Keith!” He said his name like they had known each other forever and had just bumped into one another at the grocery store. “We have to stop meeting like this. Eventually, I might accidentally kill you.”

_Yeah, wouldn’t that be a shame_.

“R-right,” he said. _He’s just a person, Keith, pull yourself together_. “It’s, uh, it’s pretty early.”

Lance shrugged, moving to lean more against his bike. “I have morning practice. Better to have it now so I won’t be running into pedestrians—well, aside from you, apparently.” He laughed. Keith smiled at the sound. “What’s got you out and about at this time?”

Keith put his hands in his front pockets, fiddling with the memory card. “I just… had some stuff to do. I also, uh, left my car by the stadium so I gotta… hope I don’t have a ticket.” 

“That’d just be the cherry on top of your weekend, huh?”

Keith chuckled because, really, it would be. His whole college career so far had been made up of routines that seldom ever got bent out of shape. Yet, the second that got messed up, just by having to take sports pictures, look what had happened to him. It was ridiculous.

For a second, the light shifted. Lance was laughing along with Keith as the sun fell on his face, illuminating the freckles that were splashed across his face and his eyelashes that were way too long to be considered real. A dimple appeared on his right cheek, only noticeable from this close. So, maybe Lance would turn out to be an asshole or not funny or think that Keith’s pictures were lame. Maybe he wasn’t into Keith that way.

But… maybe he was. Maybe he could be.

“Hey, we’re going the same way, wanna walk?”

Keith grinned. “Why not?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one of the most used words in this chapter was 'face' hm I wonder why
> 
> thank you for reading xx


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize if this chapter is clunky or hard to read, I got hit with sickness this week so my writing was often at night when I couldn't sleep or function, you know how it be.  
I hope you enjoy it regardless xx

“A photographer, eh? That explains why you were so in the way at the match.”

“I wasn’t in the way, it’s what you have to do to get good photos.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I hope you got my good side.”

Lance winked at him, making Keith’s heart skip a beat. But he played it off. “What good side?”

He made a motion of being stabbed in the chest. “Ouch, cold-blooded.” 

Keith’s nose felt relatively sore from smiling so much. He wasn’t one to smile so much in a day, anyway, but the incentive here was different. It was… better. 

They continued walking to the stadium, meandering past the rest of Greek Row, past Drips, and followed the trail to where the parking lot could be seen. Lance, despite having to carry his bike with him through the whole stroll, didn’t seem to mind the walk. Keith assumed he had morning practice like this a lot, so it wasn’t an issue. 

“Y’know,” Lance said, snapping Keith out of his thoughts, “you haven’t texted me about anything yet.” 

Keith felt his cheeks darken in warmth at the idea of Lance’s phone number set on his nightstand. He hadn’t yet put it in his phone but was afraid to move it anywhere else in fear that he would lose it even though, _really_, he had no intention of texting Lance.

He must’ve felt Keith’s hesitation, because he added, “I’m serious.”

“You’re not.”

“When I say anything—”

“I’m not going to ask for any favors.”

“C’mon, dude. I kicked a soccer ball into your face, it’s only fair.”

At that, Keith rolled his eyes and they had finally reached the parking lot where Keith’s car was sitting desolate in the middle of the faded yellow lines. His keys jingled as he pulled them out of his pocket. “The fair thing to do would be send me a ‘get well soon’ card. Or an unnecessarily expensive bouquet of flowers that’ll die within a week. Ergo, I’m not asking anything from you.”

Lance’s bottom lip fell out in a pout as Keith unlocked his car door. “Man, you’d think that getting your brain rattled around might make you less stubborn than this.” 

“If that’s all you think it takes,” he laughed, popping open the door, “then you’re going to continue being severely disappointed.” They both laughed together again, something they had done a few times during their walk, until it faded to a lingering silence. Now was the time when they would have to say a sort of awkward goodbye or ‘see you later’ which never actually happened. Keith gripped his steering wheel, waiting for his cue to drag himself into his car and lock the doors. But Lance didn’t say a goodbye.

“So, see you at the next game?”

Keith let out a small choked cough. “Huh?”

“My next game.” Lance smiled like it was obvious. “You’re gonna take more pictures, yeah? I mean, I have zero clue how the school newspaper works but I would assume that you would be, though I guess I could be wrong. But it would be _pretty_ awesome if you kept taking pictures of the team.”

A pause hung in the air. “You haven’t even seen any of my photos.”

Lance shrugged, lightly kicking the front tire of his bike. “Minor detail. Besides, I’m going out on a limb and assuming you’re pretty good.” He glanced up at Keith, half of a smile revealing a dimple. “So?”

Keith’s hand fell off of the steering wheel. All his gravity fell to his feet on the asphalt slowly getting warmer from the rising sun. His sweatshirt was starting to get a little too warm. He felt slight pain from his bruises when he smiled. “I’ll think about it, but on one condition. My first favor.”

“Anything,” Lance said, leaning forward intently. Keith leaned forward too, ever so slightly, enough that he caught his own reflection in Lance’s pupils. 

“Aim before you shoot.”

Lance reached out to shove Keith, or maybe punch his shoulder, but he was already in his car, slamming the door shut and listening as the tired engine woke up. Lance swung his leg over his bike and started for the stadium across the road, flipping him off as he went. Keith sent him the same back, even after he was already too far away to see, and started for home. 

+++

“See, I told you it wasn’t a hallucination!”

As Keith walked through the door, Keith was greeted by a finger being waved in his face, that being of Pidge. “Good to see you, too,” he sighed, then looked to see Hunk sitting on the couch with some sort of history book in his lap. “Hey, Hunk.”

“Hey, man.”

Pidge looked back at Hunk, hands on her hips. “Do you believe me now?”

“I mean,” he motioned to Keith, “I guess I have to, right?”

Keith raised an eyebrow. “What’s this about?”

“He didn’t believe me when I said you got hit in the face.”

“Hey, I gave Keith the benefit of the doubt,” Hunk said. He stood up and carefully examined Keith’s face before chuckling slightly. “Apparently, I stand corrected.”

Keith huffed. “Why am I getting the second degree on this? It could’ve happened to anyone.”

Pidge slapped his shoulder. “But it happened to you, Keithy, and that’s hilarious.” Keith shrugged off her hand and tossed his keys onto the coffee table with a clatter. Pidge’s finger landed on Hunk’s chest. “You owe me two bucks.”

“Making money off of your roommates’ pain?” Hunk slapped the two dollars into her open hand. “You’re cold, dude.”

“Whatever,” she mumbled. “Any hitches with your car?”

He hesitated, slowly taking down his sweatshirt hood. “Uh, no, it was still right where I left it.”

Both Hunk and Pidge must have heard it, the ever so subtle crack in his voice that gave away there being more to the story. They glanced at each other, shared a silent conversation, then crossed their arms like disappointed parents. “Is that all?” Hunk asked, trying to keep his smile hidden.

Keith sighed. There was no use trying yet again to lie because as much as he hated it, they could read him like a book. “I, uh, ran into Lance on the way there.” 

Hunk’s smile broke through. Pidge’s eyes widened. “You hung out with him again?”

“No, there is no ‘again’,” he clarified, running a hand through his hair. “I would hardly count him running to the student health center or walking next to me to my car ‘hanging out’.”

“But he _did_ give you his phone number.”

There was a pause, then Hunk burst into laughter as Keith’s ears turned red. “Lance McClain gave you his phone number? How did I not know about this?”

“It’s not that big of a deal,” he muttered.

Pidge poked Keith’s cheek. “Awe, is Keithy embarrassed?”

“Fuck off, gremlin,” he said, moving his eyes back to Hunk. “It’s _not_ a big deal. He gave it to me in an effort to try and make up for hitting me.”

Hunk raised an eyebrow. “Make up for it?”

“He specifically used the word ‘anything’,” Pidge interjected. 

“Anything, huh?” Hunk pondered the word for a second while situating himself on the couch again. “I know I don’t usually give out my number for _anything_.”

“It’s not like that,” Keith groaned. “He’s… I just don’t know… if he’s…”

Pidge collapsed in the loveseat next to the tv, taking a loud slurp of water. “You don’t know if he’s gay or not?”

Keith followed Pidge’s example and fell onto the couch next to Hunk with an exasperated sigh. “Exactly.”

“I may not be an expert on this,” Hunk said, “but I’m guessing maybe you could just… ask him?”

Pidge scoffed. “Keith? Take initiation in a potential relationship? Unheard of.”

“That’s not true!” 

“How many guys have I pointed out to you that you’ve so articulately turned down because of a stupid, obsolete reason?”

“They aren’t stupid, they’re real, _legit_ reasons.”

“Ears too big?”

“They were practically wings!”

“No sense of style?”

“Even I have better sense than to wear those pants.”

“Too muscular?”

“He really looked like he was trying too hard to impress everyone.”

“_Enough_!” Both of their eyes landed on Hunk, who looked exhausted from the conversation. “If you always find something wrong with guys, then is there anything wrong with Lance?”

This gave Keith pause. He had been looking, right? Surely there was something about him that stuck out to him as… off? His brows furrowed as he thought. His hair? No, that looked soft and probably doesn’t take much styling. His face? There’s no way his skin was naturally that clear. He must have some sort of secret regimen hidden away. Hell, even his ears framed his face perfectly. And his smile… 

After what felt like an eternity of quiet, Keith dropped his head into his hands. “Nothing.”

Hunk and Pidge glanced at each other again. “Nothing?”

“There is absolutely nothing wrong with him.” 

Pidge threw up her arms. “Ding, ding, ding! We have a winner! Now all you have to do is put on your big boy underpants and ask him if he’s into dudes.”

“Easy for you to say,” Keith muffled through his hands. He felt a poke on his temple and peaked through his fingers up at Hunk.

“You’ll never know unless you ask, y’know.”

Keith just sighed and checked the time on his phone. “We have awhile until the paper meeting. I’m going to… take a nap.”

“And avoid your problems.”

“It’s one of my favorite things to do.”

He shut the bedroom door behind him, leaving Pidge and Hunk to return to conversation. The blinds were still shut from the night before, leaving relatively low light peeking through; the little that did, landed on the collage of front pages he had made, gradually extending over the wall that bordered the edge of his bed. It wasn’t much, he always reminded himself, just a college newspaper. But it was something.

The bedframe let out a small squeak when he crumpled into the bed, quickly curling his arm around his pillows and carefully burying his face in it. He closed his eyes, already feeling how the interactions from the day had worn him down. Then he opened them. And he sat up.

His hand found a piece of paper resting on his nightstand. It was folded up into a tiny, uneven square from all the times he had looked at it and set it back down. Slowly, he unraveled it and stared at the ten numbers. With a surge of confidence, he brought out his phone and searched his applications for the contacts. He typed out the number, then erased it and typed it again, just to be sure he got it right, then typed out the name that brought forth a smile.

Lance. 

Keith set his phone face down and resumed his position hugging his pillow. That was enough for one day; sending a text message would be… for another. 

+++

“You want to take sports photos… _again?_”

Keith shuffled his feet awkwardly in the doorway to Shiro’s office. “I don’t want to do _all_ the sports this week, but I want to… I dunno, expand my portfolio a little?”

Shiro narrowed his eyes slightly, the gears in his head working over a thousand miles per hour. “Well,” he started, standing up with his arms crossed. “Your photos _were_ impressive, even for being knocked out of commission half-way through one of the games.” Keith nodded, fiddling with the inside of his pockets while Shiro continued thinking. “I suppose that you taking a game wouldn’t be too much for the rest of them. I know there’s a women’s basketball game—"

“Soccer.”

There was a pause. “Come again?”

Keith cleared this throat. “I, uh, would like to do the next soccer game. If it’s not too much trouble.”

Shiro pursed his lips. He moved to his desk and flipped around the monitor, revealing a mock-up of the newspapers front page that would come out this week. There wasn’t anything concrete, just a layout model with boxes for articles and headlines, except in the very center of the page was Keith’s photo of Lance, cut around the edges so there was hardly any background to distract from his warm smile and crinkled eyes that looked right through him. “Soccer seems to be your calling, huh?”

“Uh, y-yeah,” he said, his mouth suddenly dry. 

“Keith,” he turned the monitor back forward, “why are you so suddenly interested in sports?”

“I’m not interested in sports,” he explained, “I want to expand my portfolio.”

“And why is this suddenly what you want to expand upon? We have positions for news photographers or even for abstract photography. Why sports?”

Keith crinkled his nose, feeling a twinge of pain. “I… found inspiration.”

He wasn’t technically lying, which is probably what led Shiro to nod his head and agree to give him the spot at the soccer game. His heart, which had been beating irrationally fast for some reason, felt full. Suddenly, the entire week seemed like a long road before the next game on Saturday, but Keith could hardly contain his thoughts as he sat in the main office. 

They were quickly interrupted anyway. 

“Keith?” He looked up. Allura, sitting in her swivel chair in front of her desk, had a confused look on her face. 

“Uh, yes?”

She tilted her head. “Did you hear a word I just said?” Keith shook his head, and she sighed. “We lost you in arts last week and managed to get everything done, but now that you’re back, I have some assignments I want you to take care of.”

“Sure, absolutely. But I’m going to be, uh, busy… on Saturday, so…”

He trailed off at the glare sent his way and he made a point to look at the ground. “You wouldn’t happen to be busy because of more sports photos, would you?” Silence. “For pete’s sake, if Shiro takes you out of my section without warning one more time I swear to—”

“I asked to take pictures for it.”

Allura, as pretty and kind-hearted as she was, could never hide her emotions. Keith had learned that since the second semester of his sophomore year when she became the Arts and Culture editor. She had a very specific idea of what was to happen at meetings and how things were supposed to run, and if anything interfered with that process, well…

Her eye twitched. “You what?”

Keith, trying not to stare, answered, “I, uh… I wanted to take the soccer game this Saturday. But anything this week that you have, lay it on me. I’m all for it.”

She pushed her silver hair back behind her ear and took a deep breath. “O-kay, well then I guess _I’ll_ take the Kappa Sigma pie-facing fundraiser Saturday morning, not that I have something better to do.”

_And_ she guilt-tripped. A lot.

Keith might as well have punched himself in the face with how much he was dropping it into his hands lately. He knew she was looking at him, waiting to mentally rearrange his schedule in order to accept the assignment. He didn’t know what time the game started, what time this pie-facing thing was, but Allura’s eye was twitching again and or _some_ reason that picture of Lance was stuck in his goddamn brain—

“Yeah, okay, just, uh, give me the information and I’ll take the pie-facing event.”

It was no wonder Shiro had an insane crush on her, because the smile that broke out on her face was immaculate. “Wonderful! Excellent! Thank you so much, Keith. I’ll write you down and send you that information as soon as I can.”

The sound around the office quieted down as Shiro walked out, welcoming everyone to the staff meeting. Keith felt like his head was going to fall off. Everything was white noise as he rubbed his eyes and heard some sort of introduction to the topic that Shiro would talk about for the rest of the meeting. 

“Good evening, everybody. Today’s topic will be,” He scribbled something and on board and underlined it. Keith got up and left, muttering about a headache. Shiro turned and watched him go, then looked back to the crowd. “Conflict of interest.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading :) xx


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if i were to title this chapter, it would be something like 'you can pry italics out of my cold dead hands' bc there are a lot   
also i'm sorry if this chapter is kinda a mess, writers block hit me like a train this week :/

The door clicked shut behind Keith as he tossed his keys onto the table, as per usual. Pidge was on the couch, her nose in some sort of computer manual or engineering textbook, and glanced up at him. “How was it?”

_It_ being a ‘Yellow Brick Road’ even set on by the student government. Students gathered at a strip of sidewalk downtown (after getting permission from whatever businesses they would be in front of) and, literally, paint the town. Or, rather, the strip of sidewalk. It was one of Keith’s favorite events of the first semester. There wasn’t really a reason why. He just… liked it.

Keith was already looking through some pictures while still standing in the doorway. “Pretty good,” he smiled, “the cloud coverage was perfect, I really think I can get these colors to pop after I…”

He trailed off when he looked back to Pidge, a huge goofy smile pushing up her cheeks. 

“Pidge?”

“You got some mail today,” she said simply, putting the book over her face to try and hide her shrewd chuckles. He frowned, looking around on the coffee table or kitchen counter for where his mail usually ended up. There were no bills, no strange magazines or random envelopes, so when he looked back at Pidge, she motioned her head to his room.

His room? Pidge only tossed packages in there since it ‘took up room on the table’ or whatever her strange reason was. But… he hadn’t ordered a package? 

The fluorescent light of his bedroom kicked on and Keith nearly dropped his camera onto the floor. Sitting atop of his desk was a glass vase filled entirely with an assortment of flowers, from lilies and daisies to some roses and even tulips. Sitting next to it was a card, half-open so it stood upright. Keith, still stuck in some disbelief, gently set his camera down as he reached forward to grab it.

The front of the card showed a cartoon cookie with a Band-Aid on it, reading ‘You’re One Tough Cookie!’ Keith opened it, where the words ‘Get Well Soon!’ appeared in the center. In the corner, a message was scrawled in what looked like a quick scribble. 

_Not sure what your favorite flowers were, hopefully no one is allergic otherwise I owe you another one… See you on the field, camera man! – Lance_

There was even a crude drawing of Keith that Lance must have sketched, with tired eyes, and a bandage over his nose, and his hair… _that’s not what my hair looks like._

Keith brought out his phone and created a new message and typed quickly before he could change his mind. 

_My hair does not look like that_

He pressed send, then really wished that he hadn’t. _That_ was the first thing he decided to text Lance? He probably sounds crazy; he probably won’t even know who the message was from. Maybe he should send another text, really casually, and say _oh yeah, this is Keith by the way haha_. Wait, no haha. That sounds weird. Is Lance more of an ‘lol’ kinda guy? Hopefully not in all his messages, that could get annoying. 

Wait, this is stupid. Lance probably won’t even text him back, the number was probably already blocked, and he’s stuck here with a huge bouquet of flowers and a drawing that did not look like him—

_Blip_.

Keith glances at his phone now lit up from a new notification. He quickly snatched it up and held it to his chest. No, he wasn’t _afraid_ to see the message. It might not even be Lance. Pidge sometimes texted him when dinner was ready. Yeah, maybe that was it. He decided to glance down at his phone.

It wasn’t Pidge. It was Lance.

_Yes it does! It’s like a mullet, said in the nicest way possible_. 

Relief washed over him in the form of a smile. He instantly started typing back a reply.

_first the soccer ball, now you’re attacking my hair?_

Lance replied back promptly.

_Hey, I sent you some unnecessarily expensive flowers that’ll die within a week, where is my thanks?_

Keith scoffed, thumbs flying over the keyboard. 

_yeah, thanks, and no, I’m not allergic. You got lucky_

_Whew, I guess I did, and I finally got you to text me ;)_

A winky face. Lance really just send Keith a winky face. His thumbs shook slightly as he typed. 

_whatever_

He thought maybe that’s how the conversation would end, which some part of him didn’t want. That part of him also jumped at another new message. 

_Oh, I saw the picture of me frontpage in the paper today, thanks for getting my good side_

There was a pause as Keith thought of a way to respond to this, but Lance beat him to it yet again.

_I owe you another one_

Keith sighed.

_no more flowers_

_No promises_

+++

For a Saturday morning, Keith was surprised at how easily Kappa Sigma was awake and ready for their event, and even more surprised at how many people were already there. It seemed like there was a little of everybody; other guys hoping to pie their friends, girls hoping to pie boys that they (most likely) had a crush on, even some faculty and parents to get back at their students and children. Keith really couldn’t blame them.

There was a booth set up with a small cache for money, and a sign reading ‘$2 for a Pie!’ with guys in matching red shirts standing at the table being stocked with whip cream pies. In the information Allura had sent him about the event, they were doing it for some sort of charity that their house was assigned to. Every year they try to have a different activity, and this year it had apparently fallen on throwing pies at each other. Keith wondered how that idea had even come up. 

Once the event had officially started, Keith started taking pictures. It proved to be slightly difficult to avoid getting pie on his clothes while also trying to get a good shot, but he managed. There was always a chorus of _ooh’s_ that came from the rest of the frat members when someone got pied. Keith couldn’t help but chuckle along with them at how ridiculous it was. 

Suddenly, he heard a familiar voice. One that shouldn’t have been as familiar as it was apparently becoming, but familiar, nonetheless. 

And it did not take long for that voice to spot Keith among the few that weren’t wearing matching red shirts.

“Hey, mullet!”

Lance was wearing the same shirt as all the other, covered in letters that read ‘Kappa Sigma’ with a pie between the two words. Keith, ever reliant on his reoccurring actions, rolled his eyes. Of course, of _course_ Lance was in a fraternity. The frat that was pie-ing each other for charity. The assignment that Keith just so happened to take because Allura’s eye was twitching and he just had to take pictures for his soccer game again—

That reminded him. “Don’t you have a soccer game in a few hours?”

Lance nodded, crossing his arms over his chest. “Yeah, I’m gonna have to make a break for the stadium as soon as I get all the pie out of my hair.” 

Keith tilted his head. “What makes you so sure you’ll get pied?”

“People either love me or hate me,” he said, a cocky smile on his face. “That makes me easily susceptible to pies.” Keith clicked his tongue in understanding, unable to stop himself from looking Lance over. God, did he really have to look good in _every_ color? Thankfully, Lance seemed distracted by something enough to not notice. “Are you gonna pie someone?”

“I’m here for pictures.” He held up his camera as a reminder. “Besides, I don’t know anyone here.”

“You know me,” said Lance, making a grand gesture to himself, causing Keith to roll his eyes again lest he let them travel over that _ridiculously_ tight shirt. “And it goes to a great cause.”

“What, the cause of you guys being able to buy another beer pong table?”

Lance put on a look of mock astonishment. “Keith, are you making _assumptions_ based on cheesy fraternity stereotypes? I’m appalled.” Keith muttered something along the lines of ‘shut up’, and Lance laughed. “No, our charity is actually going to child cancer research.”

“Wow, that’s actually… really nice,” Keith said. “For a frat guy.”

He punched his shoulder, leaving them both chuckling “Y’know,” Lance popped out his hip, “why don’t you just throw a pie at me?”

“What’s the fun of that if you know I’m going to do it?”

He shrugged. “I’d have to somehow plot my revenge. _That’s_ what makes it fun.” 

“So, you want to make it up for kicking me in the face, but you also want to… instill revenge on me?”

“Obviously I think we’re good enough friends it’s a fair trade.”

Good friends. Huh. 

“I’m not gonna pie you.”

“Awe, c’mon!”

Keith pulled his camera up to his face as he walked toward the action happening and away from Lance. What Lance _couldn’t_ see was the smile on his face. 

He maneuvered around enough so Lance would think he was busy, so he would think that Keith kept his word. Lance got busy doing something else, unsurprisingly. It was when he ran back into the gigantic house that Keith slipped two loose bills out of his pocket and onto the table and replaced it with a pie tin full of whipped cream. 

It didn’t take long for Lance to come back outside. Thankfully, Keith was good at hiding things.

“You’re heading out?”

Keith nodded. “I gotta change before I go to the soccer game.” He made a motion to some whipped cream on his shoulder. “I think it’s in my contract that I at least _try_ to look professional.”

Lance snorted. “Last time you were there you were wearing a sweatshirt and ripped jean.”

It made Keith’s heart jolt at the idea that Lance remembered what he was wearing that day. “Well, I think you’ll have more cleanup to do, anyway.”

“Huh?”

Lance’s eyes widened as Keith brought the pie out from behind his back. He tried to bring his arms up to take most of the blow, but Keith was too fast. The pie hit right on target, into the dead center of his face. Keith couldn’t help but howl in laughter as Lance scraped whipped cream out of his eyes to glare at him. “Oh, it is _on_ now, mullet.”

“It was for a good cause!” Keith was already jogging away from the house, watching as Lance reluctantly smiled and licked some of the whipped cream off of his fingers. He snapped a picture before turning the street corner.

Something in him told him to just keep running, leaving him out of breath by the time he came through the door of his apartment. Pidge looked like she was about to head to work as she glanced at Keith. “Did you just run a marathon or something?”

“No big deal,” huffed Keith, hands on his knees while taking deep breaths. 

Pidge walked over and grabbed something off of his shoulder. She looked at it, then at Keith. “Is this whipped cream?”

Keith just brushed the rest of it off and started towards the kitchen. “I said no big deal.” 

+++

Words that Keith associated with the word cocky would be smug, arrogant, annoyingly confident in their own ability to hit a soccer ball into a goal half a field away. And the word Lance. 

This was confirmed as the soccer ball flew past the opposing team’s goalie and into the net, causing the crowd to cheer and Lance to shoot Keith, who was _not_ standing by the goal this time, finger guns. Keith lowered his camera to glare at him but decided to take a picture of it anyway (knowing full well Shiro would not put it into the paper). 

Upon receiving his glare, Lance moved his fingers to his cheeks and pushed up, silently trying to tell Keith to smile. Keith’s reply was to frown even harder, despite every bone in his body telling him to smile because, well, Lance was smiling. It felt like some sort of obligation. 

After some more shots at the goal, cheers from the crowd, a few more finger guns and some fouls that Lance would probably vehemently deny were his fault, the referee blew the whistle that ended the game. Lance motioned at Keith from across the field to wait as he ran back into the locker room. Keith scoffed to himself but decided to go through the pictures he had taken, even if it took some… extra time.

The pictures were nothing special, nothing, especially compared to the picture he had of Lance wiping pie off of his chin. Of course, he knew that that picture wouldn’t make it into the paper, either. 

“Mullet!”

Lance came jogging toward him, still wiping sweat off of his forehead and brushing the damp hair out of his eyes. Even with the sound of the crowds moving out of the stadium, Keith could hear the giddiness of the win in his voice. “Is this a new nickname? Because I really hope it doesn’t catch on.”

Lance shrugged. “Then get a haircut?”

“Uh, no?”

“Then Mullet it is,” he smiled. 

Keith smiled, too. Out of obligation. “Whatever.” 

They started walking towards the exit. Lance kept giving out fist bumps and shoulder slaps to his teammates, all of which also gave Keith the smallest _look_. He really couldn’t describe it any other way than a _look_, one that he wished he could find a meaning for but really just… couldn’t.

“Hey, there’s a party tonight at some lame Sigma Nu Alpha or something,” he waved his hand at the names, “whatever frat house. Sounds really lame. Wanna go?”

“The invitation sounds so intriguing and sincere,” Keith mocked. “Why should I go to this ‘really lame’ party?”

“I’ll be there,” Lance shrugged again, sending Keith a cheeky smile. “Isn’t that enough?”

Keith’s heart started beating rapidly. _Smug, arrogant, annoyingly confident in their own ability to hit a soccer ball—_

“You put yourself on a pretty high pedestal, McClain.”

“Is that a yes?”

_Smug, arrogant, annoyingly confident in their own ability to hit a soccer ball into a goal half a field away, Lance. _

_Lance, Lance, Lance—_

“Only because you didn’t hit me in the face today.”

He laughed, throwing his head back and outshining the sun. “I knew you’d see it my way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! xx


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter took a long time because I'm always stressed but sometimes I manage to write a whole chapter during a lecture :))))  
also all the comments i get are so nice and sweet, y'all make me wanna keep writing which is a true feat in itself, so thank you   
hope you enjoy xx

“Are you sure that red is your color?”

“It’s either this or I’m wearing all black.”

“What’s wrong with that? It certainly fits your personality.”

“I should’ve known you’d be no help with this,” Keith groaned. He turned to the other side of the couch. “What do you think, Hunk?”

Hunk rubbed his temples. “Why did you call a 9-1-1 for this?”

“Keithy here has never been to a frat party,” Pidge explained as Keith turned back around to look in the mirror, a clear pout on his face. “He’s trying to dress to impress his boyfriend—”

“_He’s not my boyfriend, gremlin._”

“—So, he needs both of our help.”

Hunk sighed. “I like the red. Stick with it.” Keith grumbled something under his breath and began searching his closet for a jacket to wear with it. Hunk sat back against the wall, gazing at the newspaper covers. Specifically, the most recent one added. One with a picture of Lance shooting a thumbs up. “You’ve never been to a frat party?”

“I’ve been to house parties,” Keith explained from digging in the closet, “apartment parties, street parties, even a few tailgates. I just…” he trailed off, slowing his movements until it was silent. Until he was sitting there, surrounded by sweatshirts that weren’t quite good enough to wear tonight, realizing that he didn’t have a damn clue what he was doing. He glanced over at Hunk. “How many frat parties have you been to?”

He put up a finger, then two, then five, then ten, then waved his hands. “Too many to count.”

“Huh.” Keith creased his eyebrows together. “Never would’ve pegged you as the type to go to frat parties.”

“Yeah, well,” Hunk chuckled to himself, “me neither.”

Keith went back to destroying his closet, ripping things off of hangers and digging through discarded clothes from last week. “Goddammit, I can’t find a good jacket to—”

“Try this one.”

Keith popped his head out of the closet as an article of clothing thwacked him in the face. He peeled it away, recognizing the scuffed sleeves, worn zipper, and some questionable memories associated with it. Regardless, a huge smile spread across his face. “Where the hell did you find my jacket?”

Pidge waved off the question. “Oh, nowhere. Just put it on, I know it’ll make you feel better.”

He glared at her as he slid it over his shoulders, still smiling slightly from the old familiar feeling it brought. “You hid it from me, didn’t you?”

“C’mon, Keith, it’s so tacky.”

They both couldn’t help but laugh as Keith looked at himself in the mirror, absolutely giddy. “You’re telling me _this_,” he did a spin, “looks tacky?”

Pidge just nodded. Hunk was still laughing. “A cropped jacket? I would never peg you—”

“Shuddup.”

Keith kept looking over himself, feeling a surge of confidence for the night. Even if nothing happens… no, Keith, something _will_ happen. Of course, he won’t force anything. That’s not… anyway. There was no way that Lance _wasn’t_ flirting with him. He _had_ to have been. Unless... he wasn’t? There was always that possibility gnawing at the back of his head. But Hunk was right, as he always was. He wouldn’t know unless he tried. 

And tonight, he was going to try. 

“Alright, I’m ready to go.”

“Uh, Keith?”

“Yeah?”

“What time is this party?”

“I dunno, like nine-thirty?”

Pidge looked at her watch, then looked up at Keith. “Dude, it’s five o’clock.”

+++

Keith waited the appropriate amount of time until he decided to leave to meet Lance. That is, Hunk and Pidge had to force him to leave a few minutes late so he wouldn’t seem desperate. They watched him go to his car like parents watching their child go off to college. 

“You think anything is gonna happen tonight?” asked Hunk.  
“You mean do I think they’re gonna hook up?”

“Yeah.”

Pidge shrugged. “The sexual tension between them makes my skin crawl so it’s certainly possible.”

“Is that a yes?”

“If it was up to Keith, no, he second-guesses too much. But Lance… is a wildcard.” 

+++

Keith knocked on the door. Really, that was a stupid idea. The music was so loud that, even with the door closed, his own thoughts were muffled in his ears. Not enough so that he couldn’t hear how dumb it was to knock on the door to a frat party.

They were interrupted when the door opened, revealing the guy with the clipboard. He eyed Keith up and down, catching slightly at the sight of his jacket. With a huff, he looked down at the papers in front of him. “Name and house?”

“Uh, Keith, I’m, uh, not in a house.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Then you’re not allowed in.”

“Wait!” Keith threw his hand in front of the door before it could close. “I was invited by a friend. His name is Lance from, uh, Kappa Sigma?”

This time, the guy raised an eyebrow. “McClain?”

“Yeah,” Keith let out a soft sigh of relief. How embarrassing would it be to tell Lance he couldn’t get into a frat party? Too embarrassing, that’s for sure. “Could you, maybe, tell him I’m here?”

He disappeared into the house and shut the door, leaving Keith in the chill air getting cooler by the second. Keith’s teeth nearly started chattering when the door clicked open again, this time revealing two faces. He could hardly register that it was Lance before his hand had slapped his shoulder and dragged him inside. “Hey, Mullet! It’s about time you got here. My directions didn’t lead you astray, did they?”

“N-no, I’m parked right across the—”

“I’m surprised you found a spot,” he clamored on, “that lot can be a pain in the ass.”

Lance’s hand didn’t move from his shoulder. Instead, his body maneuvered around Keith’s to where his arm was slung casually around his neck and he was leading him around the house. Under any other circumstance, Keith would have been trying to control his breathing with how warm his skin felt on his back. The loud music, sweaty bodies, and smell of alcohol in the air was really putting a damper on how nice it should feel. A damper, but not completely snuffing it out. His heart palpitations could attest to that. 

For this being a whole different frat, one Lance certainly wasn’t a part of, he knew his way around. He showed Keith to the main living area where a mass of people were mingling, each one dotted with a red solo cup. 

They moved into the dining area where tables were filled with open chip bags and bowls filled with what Keith assumed was spiked punch. There was even a tray of Jell-O shots, and Keith knew he was in trouble. 

Sure, in the past Keith was able to handle his alcohol since that was how he had spent a lot of his freshman year. In more recent times, he didn’t drink a lot. Pidge didn’t drink, Hunk drank on occasion, and he was still only twenty for about a month, so going out to the bar or buying his own alcohol was always out of the question. So, really, Keith didn’t drink a lot anymore, which meant that his tolerance was probably lower than normal. That also meant his decision-making skills while intoxicated were probably worse than normal, too. 

His thoughts kept racing, even as Lance left from his side to grab a few of those Jell-O shots from the tray. There were a few different colors for different flavors. Lance grabbed blue and red. “Pick your poison,” he told Keith, a grin spread across his face. 

Keith took the red one, hoping it was strawberry or raspberry. They both took their pinkies out and cut the Jell-O out of the plastic cup it sat in before clinking them together. “Bottoms up,” Keith mumbled, mostly to himself, making Lance laugh. Then, they both tossed the shots down their throats. 

The taste was pleasant at first. Sweet and strawberry as it landed on his tongue, and he could only imagine how the blue one tasted as Lance finished his. It was after Keith swallowed, however, that he felt the burn of alcohol drop into his stomach and warm his blood. He blinked hard, already feeling the faint fuzz in his brain. 

Lance took the plastic cup from his hand, still giggling. “Man, I didn’t think you were a lightweight.”

“I’m not,” he said. He blinked again.

A look passed over Lance’s face as he tossed away the cups. “If you say so, buddy. Want another?”

Keith nodded, and Lance’s smile made him feel warm. Warmer than the alcohol did. The night was only getting colder, Keith knew he would be needing both.

+++

Oh, yeah. Keith was feeling warm now. 

He would have taken off his jacket, no matter how stylish it was. But no, his hands were occupied.

One hand was tightly grasped on Lance’s shirt as he led him through a part of the house, the mental map of which had been destroyed after Keith’s third or fourth drink. The other hand had just that, a drink. Something Lance made for him. If he remembered right it was… lemonade and vodka? Whatever it was, it tasted _good._

He took another drink as Lance slowed them to a stop. Keith recognized the area as the main living room, still filled with people all holding red solo cups. Keith blended right in. 

“You know how to dance, Mullet?”

Keith laughed so hard he nearly spilled his drink, but Lance caught it and set it aside. “’M not a very good dancer.”

“I won’t believe it ‘till I see it.” Lance pulled him forward again, this time into the crowd. It smelled worse the further they went; a mix of sweat and alcohol breath and stale cologne that made Keith feel sober for a few seconds. When they stopped, Lance turned to face him and crossed his arms. “Well?”

Keith wasn’t sure what he meant, or if he was standing completely straight. He might’ve been swaying slightly. “Well, what?”

“We’re on the dancefloor, Mullet. That means you dance.”

Keith chuckled. Now he was sure that he was swaying. “I don’t dance, hot-shot.”

“Listen.” He took a step forward so he wouldn’t have to shout. Keith didn’t realize how loud the music was until he could hardly hear it over the ringing in his ears and desperately tried to hear Lance’s voice. “First, I prefer the nickname sharp-shooter. Second, I’m not going to do that whole High School Musical song and dance to make you bust a move—”

“—huh?—”

“—_but_, I dragged you all the way in here, so you gotta dance.”

Lance started to sway slightly to the beat of the music. In Keith’s head, his train of thought made perfect sense for his next statement. “You… hit me in the face.”

Keith was so drunk.

“Sharp as a tack,” Lance said, slowly moving more of his body until every part of him was blending to the bass pounding under their feet. Keith tried to keep his eyes from trailing down Lance’s twisting body because it was _way_ too unfair that Lance could dance. Un-fucking-fair.

Despite how dry his mouth had gotten, he managed to say, “I, uh, don’t know how.”

Lance maneuvered his body even closer, still moving excruciatingly well to the beat. Keith felt his breath on his face. It smelled like that blue shot he had taken. Blue raspberry. “What, can’t even tap your foot?”

“We all have our weaknesses,” he all but whispered. _I hope you’re not one of mine._

“Yeah, well, I’d say dancing is another one of my strengths, Here,” he put his hand on Keith’s lower back with just enough pressure to fuel his movements. “I’ll help you. Another payment toward my ‘I’m sorry I hit you in the face’ fund, yeah?”

Every bone in Keith’s body wanted to say some sort of sarcastic remark, something that would make this situation seem less real, maybe prove it was only the alcohol in his system. Every time he tried to speak, he could feel the hand on his back burning into his skin. It was a light push and pull, ebbing and flowing the same way that Lance’s body moved. It was almost as intoxicating as the drinks, almost as suffocating as the people around them moving on their own.

Almost, but not quite.

Keith started to move, beginning from where Lance’s hand rested and spread through the rest of his body. His legs loosened up, his arms swung back and forth, his head began to bob to the beat, and he couldn’t help but smile.

“See? You’re a natural.”

They looked up at each other, meeting eyes. Both of them were breathing heavy. They were still close enough that Keith could _taste_ the alcohol that was falling out of Lance’s mouth. If he were sober and had a better grasp of the situation, Keith might have kissed him. Or, at least _asked_ if he could kiss him. But he was drunk. From the way his body was moving, he was _really_ drunk.

So, he just smiled, probably a huge and goofy smile, and breathed out, “I guess I am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've never been to a frat party but i've seen pictures and i've been drunk so really that's all i need. hope you enjoyed, thank you for reading :) xx


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so sorry it's been so long. i got hit with midterms last semester and then everything went downhill. but, i have been writing this! it's just all in different notebooks, so it'll still be awhile before then next chapter since i have to sift through everything. but it'll happen, i promise. thank you for being patient!

“Why is the food so far away?”

“We’ll be there soon enough, buddy.”

Keith groaned, dragging his feet along the cracked sidewalk. It felt like hours ago that he and Lance decided to ditch the party and search for food downtown. In reality, it had only been about fifteen minutes. Though at the rate Keith’s stomach was rumbling, he _surely_ hadn’t eaten in over twenty-four hours. 

Lance, on the other hand, was happy. Giddy, even. He swayed slightly as he walked, occasionally bumping into Keith who bumped right back, which led both of them to giggle. Sometimes he skipped ahead and spun around a light post or hopped onto a park bench with the same daredevilry as a five-year-old. He took another spin around a light pole. “C’mon, Keith, not feelin’ the buzz?”

The buzz had been long gone. After something had led them to stop dancing, he realized that he was drunk. Far beyond easily comprehendible drunk, which became clear after trying to find the bathroom for ten minutes. So, no, he was not feeling the buzz.

“I just want some stupid food.”

Lance appeared beside him and slapped his shoulder, pushing him forward. “We’re almost there.”

Sure enough, they turned the corner and spotted it. The food truck was surrounded by other students, most of whom looked almost as messed up as Keith felt. The smell of grease and cheese hit him in the face, and he had to quickly close his mouth before drool came out.

“Wow, you weren’t kidding,” Lance chuckled. He slapped his shoulder again, this time leaving his hand to idle there. “Let’s get you some mac n cheese, yeah?”

+++

Nothing had ever tasted as good as the mac n cheese Keith was shoving into his mouth. He couldn’t quite stop himself from taking spoonful after spoonful, not giving himself a good amount of time to breathe properly. Eventually, he found a lull and stopped. His eyes fell onto Lance, who was transfixed on his own box of mac n cheese. Keith felt that he had sobered up slightly, and he could feel it while looking at Lance. He wasn’t swaying as much; his feet were firmly planted on the ground, eyes trained on Lance as he looked up. “What’s up, Keith?”

“Nothin’,” he mumbled, “’m just a little full.”

“Well, let’s head back. You can walk off some of that cheese.”

They started down the same dark street that they had started on. Now, Lance wasn’t running forward or jumping on benches that they passed by. He stayed at Keith’s side, bumping his shoulder at a consistent rhythm. 

“Lance, what do you study?”

“Awe, are we having a bonding moment?”

“Ugh, forget I asked—”

“Don’t get your jacket in a twist, Mullet.” Keith scoffed, but Lance kept bumping his shoulder. “I study child development and family relations.” He paused, watching as Keith’s face morphed into one of confusion, and laughed. “Yeah, that’s usually the reaction I get.”

“It’s just…” Keith searched for the right words. “Unexpected.”

“What, you wouldn’t look at me and think ‘hey, that guy probably likes kids’?”

Keith shook his head. “I thought you were something like business or even some sort of psychology.” _But you’re full of surprises_.

“Hah, well that’s sort of what I was thinking when I started looking at college,” he explained. “But I have quite a few siblings, older and younger, and some new nieces and nephews, so I just thought it’d be beneficial to learn about those things for my family and, y’know, eventually, other families.”

“Wow.” _Wow_. “That makes my whole college career seem… selfish.” 

“Oh c’mon,” Lance shoved his shoulder, “What did you pick?”

“Exactly what everyone things when they see my camera,” he sighed, “Professional photography with a minor in cultural anthropology.” 

Lance raised his eyebrows. “Anthropology, huh? Now it’s my turn to be surprised.” 

“Yeah, yeah.”

“I bet the ladies love that camera, though.”

His stomach dropped to his feet, making him stumble slightly on the concrete. Lance landed his hand on his shoulder to help keep steady, but Keith could hardly see straight. “Y-yeah,” he huffed. It suddenly felt as though he wanted to throw up. The look on his face must’ve given it away.

“You gonna be okay?”

Lance’s voice was full of sincere care, but Keith couldn’t hear it now. He just nodded and pushed his feet forward in a steady rhythm, still following Lance along back to wherever it was they were going. 

+++

They somehow made it back to Lance’s house. Kappa Sigma still had music playing, still had lights flashing on the first floor. People were still fumbling around with red cups barely staying in their hands. Keith had been feeling nauseous since half-way through the walk back. 

“Just sleep on my floor,” Lance said, pouring them both cups of water.

He blinked. Once at the water, then at Lance. “What?”

“I have my own room,” he explained, “and extra pillows, so if you don’t wanna walk all the way home you can sleep here and leave in the morning.”

Keith thought this over, adding together the mac n cheese resting uncertainly in his stomach, the severe lack of coordination he felt, and how far away his warm bed turned out to be. Realistically, he could’ve survived the walk, but the situation at hand seemed much more… desirable. 

“Fine,” he sighed, taking a long drink of his water.

A smile broke out over Lance’s face. “Sweet. I’m gonna go let some of the guys know that you’ll be staying longer.”

Keith watched him disappear from the kitchen. He drank some more water, letting his mind wander. He wondered what Lance’s room looked like, probably housing many pictures of his family along with different posters on the walls. He thought Lance seemed like the guy to have a copious number of pillows, enough that no matter where he rolled, his head had something soft to land on. Yeah, that seemed like Lance. 

A bubble boiled in his stomach. Blood rushed away from his head as Keith suddenly grasped at the countertop. _Bathroom_, he told himself. This was a nice house; it would be a shame if Keith ruined it with his vomit. 

With a hand over his mouth, Keith followed the same trail Lance took when he left. It led down a hallway with different voices bouncing off the walls, making him dizzy. At the end of the hall, he was Lance disappear into a side door, one that looked a lot like a bathroom. He surged forward, reaching out with his free hand.

In retrospect, he should’ve knocked. Instead, Keith barged in, nearly on the verge of what felt like exploding, and froze. 

Nobody was quite sure how to react, except for the girl sitting on the counter with her lips on Lance’s Adam’s apple who completely ignored him. Keith watched as Lance’s eyes widened, maybe from the embarrassment of being found like this, or maybe from whatever look was on Keith’s face. He said something along the lines of asking Keith if he was okay.

“Get out,” Keith all but growled, because no matter how much he wanted to at the moment, vomiting on them wouldn’t solve anything.

He pushed past them, every noise static in his ears. Keith didn’t look back to see if they had left before he started heaving into the toilet. A sweat broke out across his forehead, and the smell of everything combined made his eyes water, among other things. 

Everything hurt, but even as his stomach violently projected his mac n cheese back out of his body, his mind was only thinking of the image seared into his eyes even when they were closed. 

Lance, rosy cheeks, heavy breathing, eyes wide all the while that girl sucked on his neck, absolutely leaving a bruise that Keith would see. Lance, who had danced so close to him not even two hours ago, pressing his hand against his back, moving together so fluidly, as if it might have been meant to be. 

His stomach heaved again. Every new thought of Lance brought a bitter surge through his throat. _Lance_. Heave. _Lance_. Heave. _LanceLanceLance_—

Eventually, Keith slumped over onto the floor, feeling the gaping emptiness in his stomach. There was another aching, but he couldn’t focus on it with the knocking coming from outside the door. 

“Keith? Buddy? Please just give me some sign that you’re okay.”

At the sound of Lance’s voice, he felt anger surge through him. Even with the shakiness in his legs and hands, he pushed himself onto his feet and gripped the sides of the countertop. His own reflection made him dry heave again; what made him the most disgusted were the tears in his eyes. Like he had the _audacity_ to be upset about Lance, like there was some possibility that anything could’ve happened in the first place. 

It had all been in Keith’s head. Every look he thought Lance gave, every lingering smile he thought he had caught, even the warm press of his hand on the small of his back. Just like every other endeavor, it just became delirium that encompassed his brain until he crashed and burned. And here he was, amidst the debris and charred rubble of his wreck.

Keith ripped the door open to Lance, hand up and ready to knock again. He must’ve not seen the rage across Keith’s face, because he simply smiled. “Thank god, I thought you might pass out in there.”

He knew the longer he stood there, staring at him, the harder it would be to leave without looking back. So, that’s what he did. 

Lance called after him as he stumbled down the hall, following the breeze of cold air that he could feel on his face. He reached the outside and took a deep breath before starting down the middle of the road but didn’t make it far before a hand tugged at his arm.

“Keith,” Lance breathed. Keith turned and watched the word float away in the frigid air. “What happened?”

He ripped his arm from Lance’s hand, stuffing it in his pocket. “You’re off the hook.”

Lance’s hand remained lingering in between them, like he was waiting for Keith to take it again. “What?”

“You don’t owe me anymore favors,” he shouted, almost laughing from how stupid it all sounded out loud. “Whatever twisted debt that you thought you had to me, it’s gone, erased. You are free from pretending to act as though you actually care about me.”

“I—what? I was never pretending, Keith—”

Before he could persuade himself otherwise, he reeled back and slammed his fist across Lance’s cheek. Lance stumbled back but stayed on his feet, looking back at Keith with bloodshot eyes. The hand that had lingered between them was not cupped to his face. 

“There,” Keith rasped. “Now we’re even.”

As he walked down the street, there was some part of him that wanted Lance to run after him, or maybe that he wanted his own legs to turn and run back. Neither of those things happened, but even as he stepped into his apartment and collapsed on the floor in exhaustion and drunkenness, Keith still waited for Lance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you enjoyed! thank you again for your patience on this :)


End file.
